“Dick,” said Mr Temple one morning, as he looked up from the table covered with specimens of ore and papers.
“Yes, father.”
“Is Will Marion at home?”
“Yes, father. Hark!” He held up his hand to command silence, and from the back garden came the sound of a shrill voice scolding, and the deep rumble of Uncle Abram, apparently responding.
“You idle, good-for-nothing, useless creature. I wish we were well rid of you, I do.”
“Softly. Steady, old lady, steady,” growled Uncle Abram.
“Oh! it’s no use for you to take his part. I say he’s a lazy, idle, stupid, worthless fellow, and he sha’n’t stop here any longer. There: get out of my sight, sir—get out of my sight, and don’t come back here till you’re asked.”
“Easy, old lady, easy,” growled Uncle Abram. “What’s the lad been doing now?”
“Nothing,” cried Aunt Ruth, who was suffering from the effect of what people call getting out of bed the wrong way—“nothing, and that’s what he’s always doing—nothing. I’m sick of the sight of him—eat, eat, eat, and sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, and grow, grow, grow, all the year round. I’m sure I don’t know what we do having him here. I hate the sight of him.”
“Will,” said Uncle Abram, “go down and see that the boat’s cleaned out; perhaps Mr Temple will want her to-day.”